It Had To Be You
by comptine
Summary: There are a hundred ways to say 'I love you'. It only takes England one-hundred-and-eight times. FrUK.
1. Chapter 1

_It Had To Be You_

**407**

The first rose Arthur ever gives Francis is a mistake.

England has been taken from his island by the man with the booming voice and the head of curly dark-copper hair. He does not like this man very much (he seems to delight in picking up England and cuddling him and England has found that he does not enjoy being cuddled) but must follow anyway because he has no voice, no words, no sound. He is fledging, waiting to find wings and until then must ride on the backs of others.

So there he stands amid larger nations, clinging slightly to Rome's legs, his scared eyes scanning the crowd. No one is his size and all at once he is proud of this fact and hides a little tighter against the leg. A large hand reaches down and with all the softness of a gentle breeze gently nudges England away from his leg. "Britannia," he says, crouching next to the tiny boy, holding him out a flower.

The green eyes immediately absorb every soft lip of red and the twisted stem with thorns. His fingers touch the velvet petals which remind him of a rabbit's fur and Rome presses the stalk into his hands, careful not to catch a barb on the soft palms of the island nation. "This is a rose." Rome says, "It is a flower of love and I want you to do something very important with it. I need you to give it to another."

England frowns. He does not want to give up this treasure. His lower lips juts out and Rome chuckles, ruffling the sandy hair. "Don't worry Britannia, you will find other roses, but this one is important." Grumbling, but nodding anyway, the green gaze looks up at the empire, "I need you to give this to a girl with long blond hair, alright? Her name is Belgica."

Nodding, England waddles off, looking around the milling people, fingers still greedily feeling the petals as though enough touch will eventually steal away all the softness and give it to him. But he spots someone with blond hair and judging from the powder blue skirts that cling to the outline of thin legs, it must be a girl.

Allowing his nose one last breath of the heavy scent, England quietly walks forward, head held a little higher than normal as he taps the girl's shoulder, holding out the rose proudly.

The girl turns, bright blue eyes alighting first on the rich blossom and then on the little nation offering it. He does not seem to be much, a mark on the map, merely something to be looked over but the eyes find the green ones and immediately see the spark of something. Something that will surpass even Rome, that will reach far across the sea and conquer lands.

So France takes this rose from England, curtsying quietly, thanking him in a tongue England has never heard. Behind France, a tall woman walks up with long, deep gold hair as she kneels beside France, looking at the rose as he presents it proudly, chattering away.

"Oh Gaul…" Rome's voice says from nearby and Arthur looks around to see the empire grinning down at the woman with the deep golden curls. "I guess… Britannia got the wrong person." He starts to laugh, other surrounding nations joining in. England looks around, slightly frantic, missing what the joke was. His eyes start to fill with tears.

Then, amidst the crowd emerges another girl, her hair the same as the one in the blue dress but she is much softer and her eyes burn fiery green. "Britannia," Rome says, wiping at his eyes, gesturing towards the new arrival, "_this_ is Belgica. And this-" this time to the one with the navy eyes, "is Francia. _He_ is Gaul's oldest."

England can only bow his head trying to hid his blush and tears while France twirls the rose between his fingers, humming, now showing the rose to his sister who huffs, looking away, jealousy clear in her eyes.

Looking up to Rome, Gaul shakes her head, making sure to keep between her two children. "This will not work." She says, hand on her hip, "Not my little treasure with your… Thing."

The elder can only smile, patting the island nation's head.

* * *

**1066 **

The second rose Arthur gives Francis is the beginning.

The forests that France has grown up chasing England in now seem hostile and dangerous, each trunk gnarled and turning towards him, blurring the lines that animals and creatures have made, leaving the Frenchman to wander the wood in endless circles. He did not mind, he has a mission and after and hour passed, he finally finds his prey.

England is on the edge of a small lake, breathing hard, half naked as he attempts to tend to his wounds. It is hard, his short and young arms and already aching body making it impossible to reach the most painful gashes that ran jagged along his spine and bit in pain every time he moved.

Around him, the faeries and other mystical beasts are gathered, trying to help him but holding back, for each time they approach, the nation would snap at them, swatting them away. He is surrounded by herbs and poultices and when he grows tired of trying to bandages, he churns up the delicate petals of a rose, knowing the velvet will soothe.

As a twig cracks at the other side of the lake, the Brit turns around quickly, tearing open a barely healed wound, causing him to cry out in pain. "F-France!" he snarls, feeling the blood seep down his back and into the waistband of his pants. "Get out of here!"

"Oh _mon lapin_!" France cries back, faking hurt feelings but most just grinning at England from under the ring of his extravagant hat, "You are still so wild! Can you not be kinder to your new leader?"

England struggles to his feet, wavering as more wounds open and lines of blood begin to cover his skin. He does not understand why he is hurt because before this, he was untouched and peaceful but now the ugly claws of war are finally sinking in on his vestal and pure body and form that day on it will never leave him. "No! T-The crown was mind F-France, you had no right to take it!"

"The crown was promised to William!" France shouts, starting around the edge of the water, drawing his sword (the blood on it is dried and still smells of England.) "Your Edward promised it and then William did not receive it. We do not take kindly to broken promises."

Scrambling backwards Arthur bumps into a tree and hisses as the bark latches onto the wounds and he must lower himself off, the rose clutched in his hand digging its thorns into his flesh, but merely an after-thought compared to the agony in his back. He slumps to the ground, scowling up as France stands over him, that victorious smirk, the one England has had to deal with for six-hundred years, in place on the still slightly chubby face.

"Get away from me." England spits.

"_Non_." The blade presses to the underside of his chin, "Not until you bow to me. I am your superior. You will never be nothing more than an island of France. You will never become your own nation!"

For once, the forest is silent. England wants to argue but he has no proof, he has always been under someone's foot. England wants to run but the more he shrinks away from the blade, the more his back impales itself on the crooked bark of the tree. England wants his old France back, but he knows better.

Blood running down his arm, he leans forward and get on one knee. France smiles above him, waiting. So England offers the rose. "Take this," he says quietly, "and one day, you will regret it because I will come at you with everything I have. I will not be yours forever France."

France eagerly snatches the rose from Arthur, smelling the fresh blood and the heavy perfume of the flower. "I await the day _petit lapin_."

* * *

**1100 **

The fourth rose that Arthur gives Francis is in the house of God.

Westminster is dark. Shadows are at every turn and the clouded moonlight barely can reach through the windows of the abbey. England is holed up here, body lean, taller (still not tall enough) as his boots echo in the empty hall and in his hand rests a rose. Like Rome had promised centuries ago, the rose would be his and now, for the first time since Normandy had lay siege to his beaches, a king of his own land now takes head.

Henry, born of Windsor (on a night so dark and damp that England swears he will never forget the chill), has taken the crown. He is an English nation, born and now breed. He can eel his people more intimately now instead of a blur and hazy. Now he feels the heartbeat of London as the city settles in for the night and the wind that ruffled his flags. England felt strong and free, the sentiment of his people and his king sinking into him and suddenly fear felt like a footprint upon one of his beaches, something to be washed away.

The thorns on the stalk of the rose no longer frightened him.

He sits down in a pew, watching the moon travel across the circular window above the door and just before it disappears completely, the large double-doors open and a figure stands on the threshold of the church, panting, hair messy and clothes dirty. There is no smirk of victory, merely a snarl, because it is England's turn to grin in triumph.

The doors slam shut as France strides into the room, attempting to smooth himself out, tucking hair back, pulling at his coat and collars, anything to look like he hasn't just lost part of himself. "England." He says coldly, then, apparently correcting himself, "_Angleterre_."

"You're right." Arthur says, standing up to face the other. Behind him, the hallows of the church stood proud and the cross, _his_ cross, lined with his straight shoulders. "It is English land now. Isn't is wonderful?"

France's face contorts into an ugly snarl and he makes a grab for his sword but England simply shakes his head. "In the house of God? My, my." The hand drops for the sword, settling instead folded tight across his chest.

"You will be mine again _Angleterre_." France makes sure to run the 'r' for a moment longer than usual. "Just you wait. You 'ave always been mine and you will always be mine."

England's fingers run over the petals of the rose as he cradles it, eyes focused on the curves and swells of the red while catch whatever moonlight manages in, causing everything around the blossom to be grey save for the bright and fierce green eyes and the glint of the Frenchman's cobalt. "Is that so?" England asks, looking up, fingers gripping the edge of a single petal, the only one that, unlike its companions, is black with the poison of age. "Do you remember what I said, all those years ago France?"

The Frenchman shakes his head. "I do not remember every filthy word that 'as come out of your ungrateful mouth."

"I said that one day I would at you with everything I had." Arthur watches him carefully, weighing his every word as the moon finally slips away and the curls falls into a heavy darkness. "That day is coming France. Even if it means I must battle for a hundred years, I will. Because now-" he steps forward, offering the rose, "-now I have a grudge."

There is a full minute before France finds himself. With trembling hands, he touches the rose, pulling back once the soft skin touches the black and rotten petal. England reaches forward and rips the dead petal off letting it flutter to the ground. "Take it."

France takes the rose and England merely smiled, tracing a line from his forehead to his chest and then to his shoulders, which are now taller and prouder than ever. "Godspeed France," he says, sliding back into his pew and getting to his knees, "prepare yourself for my invasion, because I am coming for you."

* * *

**1199**

The tenth rose that Arthur gives Francis was the eve the Lion passed.

The king lies dying in his mother's arms while a few feet away; the nation of England is on his knees, sobbing. The castle has been emptied by order of England as he cannot stand to watch others gape and mourn _his_ king. That is his right, one that he has earned and will forever hold to his heart.

"E-England…" Richard breathes out, a hand weakly reaching for the young teen, who scrambles forward on his hands and knees, clutching the weak hang, kissing it tenderly. "I have a j-job for you…" he coughs and his mouth soothes his fevered brow with soft kisses as she pets his hair.

The nation bows his head with hesitation. "Of course my Lord…" he says, kissing the hand again, "Anything." He can feel the control slipping from the lion and into another; someone weak and nothing like the leader leaving him. His fingers grip Richard's palm tighter as if he can keep him from passing on just my holding him.

Not bothering to smile (lions never did) Richard grips England's hand with the last of his strength. "R-Remember…" he says, his getting ever-so-quiet that Arthur must lean in close to catch the last breath and words that pass from his lips. "_D-Dieu et mon Droit_."

Arthur promises the body that he will remember, his tears sliding down the limp hand.

They bury him but England cannot bare to part ways with both the lion and his rose so clings to the flower, not daring to lay it on the grave. Richard's mother is the first to leave the sit, followed by the archers of the castle and then the foot soldiers. Only England remains on the edge of the fresh earth. A cool wind tears at him but he does not move.

"_Angleterre_." Even at this, he does not turn around.

"What are you doing here?"

A pair of boots join his beside the turned earth. "I came to see 'ow 'e was doing. I was 'oping to watch 'im before 'e died." He shrugs, as if the king dying was tantamount to an ant being crushed, "I am too late I suppose but _c'est la vie_."

England is quiet, fingers tight around the rose, cupping its soft head in his hand. "I have a question for you France."

Finally they both look up, finally look at each other properly for the first time in almost a century. France is still taller, but stockier and more muscle from his lands while England is thin, lean and awkward. Their faces promise good looks but are still awkward and not quite their own those Francis' boasts the ghost of a beard. The sandy hair is untidy and unkempt as it always has though it hangs around his head and windy mess while France's escapes the tangling fingers of the wind by being pulled back, only allowing his bangs to separate and curl in the breeze.

But their eyes have not changed. They never do.

"_Dieu et mon Droit_." England says quietly. "What does it mean?" Rain begins to splatter down on the world, a storm boiling around the edges of the grave, waiting to wash the feeling of loss away. The English nation thanks the rain silently.

France shifts on his feet, sighing. "God and my right. It means that your king recognised no one higher than God."

"Oh." England says.

They are quiet until the rain is pounding down so hard it is impossible to hear anything above the crash of lighting and rumble of thunder. England shivered violently but couldn't bring himself to move. France finds his back and shoves him away from the grave into the safety of the castle. "Thank you France." England says, "For the translation."

Suddenly there is another clap of lightning and Francis looks at Arthur, hair hanging in his eyes. "I 'ave a name." he announces quietly, "Francis Bonnefoy. I am not just France." This was so profound and so new to England that it took him a moment to recover. Suddenly they were more human, more mortal and softer and immediately the loss of Richard weighs even heavier on his tiny shoulders.

England sits down and rubs his eyes. There is a moment where France turns away, his cheeks pink at the admission and he rests his hand on the door. "I thought you might like to know just who you are fighting." He pushes the door open, lightening creating a jagged line of light through the crack of the door, but England's voice calls Francis back and it is not the first time a mere word from the Englishman

"Arthur," England says quietly, "My name is Arthur Kirkland." Looking down at the soaking rose in his hand, Arthur holds out the rose and Francis takes hi, hiding the tiniest of smiles behind the petals.

|Next

* * *

**Author's Note**

OKAY, so this was originally planned for the Entente Cordial but I couldn't make the deadline in time... This story will span the entire history of the France/UK relationship until 2010 meaning about 12 chapters with 44 dates and historical events. Now there is a lot of historical embellishment for these because doing them perfectly would require so much research that the story would be lost within the research.

On a plus note, it's my birthday! I'm finally 18! And happy St. George Day to all you Brits out there.

**Historical Notes (may be inaccurate, please correct any major problems.)  
**

_407 -_ Just a year during the times of Roman rule in Britain. Gaul is what is known as modern-day France but I made her his mom instead because it's cuter that way. Rome's original plan it to get Belgium and England together but that doesn't work because Arthur fails like that.

_1066 -_ This is the beginning of the Normandy invasion which was basically the king of France running into England taking the crown because the previous king, Edward, said he could have it. But when Edward passed, William didn't get the crown, thus, INVASION.

_1100_ - Henry the I was not the first king born on English soil, but he was the first king born on English soil since the Normandy invasion. His coronation took place in Westminster Abbey.

_1199 -_ Richard the I (better known as Richard the Lionheart) was killed through infection after being shot by an arrow. He was a very significant figure in history and also crowned he phrase "Dieu et mon Droit" which is still used by British monarchy to this day.


	2. Chapter 2

**1212 **

The twelfth rose that Arthur gives Francis is given as London burned.

Around him, the city burns. He can feel the flames searing along his skin and veins, placing their marks there, waiting for more fresh skin to kiss and caress. He can smell the ash in their air, clogging his lungs, making it impossible to breath yet his lungs still continue to wheeze. He can hear every scream that is made as building fall and limbs smash and bodies break.

But Arthur cannot understand why. He is safe at the other end of the bridge. Looking down at his hands, he looks for the hot singes across his skin, wishing he could see something besides his pale skin. Wishes he could see the red mark branded into his body but there is nothing there. The air is clean on this side safe for the few stray sparks that float across the open Thames. Wishes that the buildings on this side would start to crumble she he could feel the earth shake beneath his feet.

A bouquet of roses (a gift for his home, to spice up the cold interior) lies on the ground at his feet, an angry wind that pulled plumes of smoke into the sky bit and tugged at the petal, dragging them towards the flames. Arthur couldn't bring himself to watch and bows his head, hands fisted tight so as to ignore the very real pain in them.

Instead he feels the presence of another at his back shivers and tries desperately not to turn around and cling to the person. Instead he opens his hands and looks at the marks that he does bear, few as they are. Burn marks were torn and bright and red in his palms, the only sign that he was connected to his land.

"Why?" He asks, his voice ragged and worn and dry from ash and from the tears he refuses to shed. "I don't understand." Finally he turns to Francis showing his palms but not his hurt and afraid eyes. "It hurts… so much… Francis…" he can only bare to say his real name for fear that if he says otherwise, the Frenchman won't understand.

Soft hands, that remind him of the petals so much so that for a moment he expects Francis to disappear into the blaze, take his, thumbs running over the wounds causing Arthur to hiss and twitch but in the end he cannot pull his hands away. "I know _mon lapin." _Says the quiet voice, using a pet name not heard for years.

France leans down, brushing his lips over the burnt scars, humming against the red and angry skin. "I d-don't like it Francis." Arthur whines. "Why?"

"Because it is our curse."

The hands let go of it, plucking a petal clinging to a stem and lifting it up. He pressed the softness into Arthur's palm, causing him to shiver and keen.

And he takes the flower Arthur had given him, plucks a single petal, graces it over the marks causing the Brit to shiver, before he straightens and walks away, twirling the rose in his hand while London's fire slowly dies and Arthur receives his first scar. They twist around his hands, shining and thin; a constant reminder that he is nothing more that an undying mortal.

Pain will not be unfamiliar to him.

* * *

**1264**

The fourteenth rose that Arthur gives Francis is the day Arthur truly hears his people.

Sitting quietly in the courtyard of a church, Arthur huddles deeper in his fur-lined cloak. The small cathedral is relatively new, built of stone from the north and wood from the east. Its windows are stained with coloured depictions of angels and Arthur can only think of his faeries when he looks at them. Just as cold and cruelly beautiful.

He has come to the house of God because he can hear voices. These voices do not tell him what to do, but act as another presence in his head. England does not like it as his mind has only room for one voice, not thousands of milling and inconsequential thoughts.

Closing his eyes, he attempts to drown them out with his own mind but every time he does, he merely thinks about the voices and they return, louder and more forceful than ever. He tries to focus on one voice like he had before, a ruler's. His King's voice, but the voices have spread in the last few weeks and he now does not just feel his people but is plagued by them.

A Parliament has been constructed; a house of the people, and Arthur hears them.

He twirls a rose in his hand, a gift from these men that drown out Henry's voice, watching the petals flutter in the cool twilight air. The rose is he now; the bright golden centre his king, strong and proud protected by the rings of red (or perhaps overshadowed), his Lords, this parliament. Then, supporting it all, whether of freewill or the divine castings of God, the sharp thorns of his people, never to die or grow dull even when all the petals have fallen and then yellow has faded.

England shifts once again on the bench and looks up, seeing something moving in the distance. Automatically he lifts his small lamp, squinting through the fog of darkness.

"France?"

Blue eyes gleam in the low light of the lamp. "_Bonne nuit Angleterre_." He says, slowly walking over. The dark grey cloak pools around his heels, causing the fog to swell and roll away. "I 'ave never seen you 'ere before. Is this your new 'iding place?"

England merely shifts aside so France may join him on the stone bench. "So you heard? Come to mock me?" he practically spits at the Frenchman, "Come to mock me for hearing voices? They aren't faeries anymore France, and they are bloody loud and I can't stop them arguing and complaining and bickering!" by now, Arthur's eyes are over bright and his nose runs and he tries to stem the flow on the sleeve of his shirt, "I can't shut them up! They just talk and talk and talk! Make them stop Francis, please make it stop!"

He breathes hard. Cautiously, Francis lifts up his hands, taking the young man's wet and blubbering face in them and gently kissing the golden hair on his forehead. For the long moment that France holds his lips there, silence falls over England's mind and all he can hear is the quiet drum of his heartbeat.

Pulling back, Francis' thumbs continue to caress Arthur's cheeks as he coos to him in French, reminding Arthur of their younger days and as the voices and pressures are nothing more than a scrapped knee. Blinking up, England watches as a light breeze tugs at the blond hair, making it shin in the light of the lamp and his musk (of wine, of the earth and flowers) mixes with the roses and the brewing storm.

By now, the voices are back. They are much more subdued, the spot on his forehead still burning and without really thinking he reaches out his own hand, covering the Frenchman's on his cheek, leaning into the pressure and sighing. His sore eyes grit closed, nuzzling against the soft skin, wishing the lips would touch him again and quiet his people.

It takes Arthur a moment to realise that Francis is now speaking in English. "Arthur? I asked you if were feeling better?"

The Englishman nods. "Thank you," he says, not moving his hand from Francis, fearful that if he did the voices would take over his mind, "can… I ask you one more favour?"

"Of course." Francis says, "Whatever you want _Angleterre_."

Arthur blinks at him tiredly. "Kiss me."

Without hesitation, France does this, pressing their lips together. It is not the first kiss they have shared (no that was among bunnies and softer times) nor will it be the last. But it is the first one Arthur has asked for, nay, demanded. It is the selfishness that binds them together and the blossoming of other feelings neither is quite ready to admit. Though, to them, at this time, curled together on the stone bench in the courtyard of a church in the winds of an on-coming storm, it was nothing. Just a kiss.

Before Francis leaves him that night (Arthur's lips and cheeks burn so much he swears he will never even hear a peep from his people again) England gives him a rose.

"_Au revoir_." Francis says.

"Goodnight." England responds.

* * *

**1296 **

The sixteenth rose that Arthur gives Francis is a show of true character.

Arthur is above his brother by sixteen hands, the horse under him huffing and breathing hard. It was a bloodless battle and England's chest has swollen with pride at his troops and how they effectively they had stormed the disorganised Scots. Ian's troops were always so barbaric and driven in Arthur's eyes.

His brother is dragged from the ring of prisoners that are about to be shipped to England. Curled, dark hair hangs in eyes and as bright and green as Arthur's own and they are narrowed, forcing the normally handsome face into an ugly scowl. "First James," he spits at Arthur's feet the moment the Brit dismounts his steed, "you took _James_ Arthur. JAMES! Our little brother! Tiny little, innocent-" the words are cut sort as fingers grip into the black hair, pulling him up.

"Innocent is a loaded word," England hisses, grinning as he watches Scotland fight against his bonds. "James killed some of my men before I managed to suppress that little rebellion of his. Funny how you and Mirien picked on me and now look who's being tied up?"

The pure hate radiating from Ian is only making Arthur's smile more devious. However, a new sound that enters the fray and the two brothers look round. Upon a white worse, stark in the muddied battlefield, is France, riding hard, hat askew from speed and he practically jumps off the horse as he approaches the pair. "Un'and him _Angleterre_!" France shouts, pulling a sword from his horse's saddle, wielding it with trembling hands.

Arthur's laugh bites through the air. "So here comes your great ally." He says to his brother, letting go of the hair in favour of clapping, "Such an alliance signed between you and Scotland, one that promised to protect the other from the little English terror and you show up the moment I've won. How classy."

The hands shake more. "_E-Enculé_!" Francis spits and Arthur wants nothing more than to pull his own sword out and just to _dare_ France to test him at this moment, when he is bigger, stronger and a threat. Oh how sweet the battle would be and end in passions that Arthur had still kept, and would continue to keep, from the Frenchman out of spite and out of a fear of growing too cherished.

"Calling someone a bastard will do nothing France." Arthur says quietly and with that, he proceeds to ram his boot into Ian's chest. "What are you going to do?" he asks, crushing break from the throat, ignoring the cries of pain ripping from his brother's lips.

The blue eyes widen. "Leave him alone _Angleterre_," France whispers, lowering his sword, "P-Please-"

England's boot pushes harder. The screams grow louder. "Oh I'm sorry France," he says, cupping a hand around his ear, "I didn't quite hear you."

By now the dirt has soiled Francis' knees and he proceeds to beg England. Pleased, Arthur pulls his foot back, watching his brother curl into a ball. "Pitiful." He says finally, shoving Francis away as the Frenchman makes a lunge, trying to touch Ian. Keeping him back, Arthur hears two guards drag Ian away over the choked sobs and French curses France is hissing and biting into his ear.

"You don't understand France," England says as the French nation pulls away fro his, blue eyes welled with tears, "it is for his own good. I have his stone and now I will be able to support him and make sure he doesn't get into any trouble."

France opens his mouth. "When did you become so heartless?"

The Englishman's laugh is even wilder than before. He waves over two young pages, one bringing his black stallion and the other carrying in his hands a fantastic array of flowers. England's fingers plucked at rose from the mix. Mounting his horse and taking a deep breath of the rose, England offered it to France. "Nothing like a little victory gift, no?" he asked, chuckling slightly, "Next time, try choosing the side that will win instead of the one with the better bed and a _heart_."

France takes the rose so that he can throw it to the ground. England does not see this action as he has already rode off.

* * *

**1337**

The twentieth rose that Arthur gives Francis is the beginning of a century of war.

Arthur shows up on Francis' shores alone. On this side of the Channel, he can still feel the pull of England and he believes, just for a moment, that if he looks hard enough across the silvered expanse, he could see his land shimmering on the edge, a mirage. He stumbles of small hills of grass that give way to a cliff.

Slipping over the edge of the small ledge, Arthur's feet hit, ankles buckling for only a moment, a soft sandbar. He gazes down the sand, which mixes with pebbles before moulding into the gentle waves of the ocean. There, against the horizon, blocking his view of England, was France.

The man does not look up as Arthur takes a seat beside him. He rests their shoulders together, having long ago earned the privilege. Still, France says nothing, eyes fixed somewhere Arthur couldn't see, but he holds out a dark bottle and England takes it gratefully, sipping before swigging.

He is disappointed that the alcohol does nothing to drown the feelings in his stomach. "This is it." He says finally, breaking the silence because he knows that if he can't bare it any longer, Francis must be fit to burst.

"_Oui_." France agreed tiredly. He nudges Arthur's hand. England passes back the wine and Francis drinks.

The green gaze turns back to the sea, to his England. "We're… finally different."

France laughs. "We 'ave not been the same for a very long time _mon lapin_."

"True." Arthur takes the bottle again. Disappointed, he finds that France has finished it and he lobs it away. The waves lap at it, tugging it into the murky depths. "What if one of us doesn't survive?"

France looks at Arthur and there seems to be a sense of longing and hatred in his eyes. "Then one of us does not survive." He says quietly, "England or France could cease to exist and we would fade with them, nothing more than shells of our former selves."

Shivering, Arthur makes no move to hide the action from Francis. "Oh, I brought you something." He begins to rummage in his jacket.

"Let me guess," Francis leans back on his hands, fingers weaving into the sand, "a rose?"

The Brit smiles slightly and pulled a brilliantly carved and crafted silver rose pin. He offers it quietly. "Since we won't be seeing each other for a long time." Francis' fingers graze his palm as he picks it up, holding it up to the setting sun, examining it, "I thought I'd carry on the tradition."

Pin slipping into his pocket, France gets to his feet. "You should return to your island," he says, "and start preparing. My king will not go down without a fight."

"Neither will mine." Arthur watches him, "I may hate you after this."

France smiles. "And I you _mon Angleterre_."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Sorry, had to graduate, get caught up for homework post-Europe and have a blast at Otafest. Sadly, diplomas (yeah, graduated but still have two weeks of school left) are coming up as well but my workload is definitely less so I'll try to get back to posting once a week but no promises.

OCs

Ian Drake Donovan MacInnes - Scotland (26)

James Lloyd Cadwalader - Wales (21)

Mirien Hayes Flanagan -Ireland (24)

**Historical Notes (embellishment is rampant in this fic)  
**

_1212 -_ One of the great fires that razed much of London. Although England had been attacked plenty before this, I like to believe that he didn't start developing scars until he was truly independent from other groups.

_1264 -_ This year is the first time a Parliment was introduced to Britain and it happened only _after_ the King (Henry III) was captured and almost executed but they simple set up the precursor to the House of Lords.

1296 - Takes place during the Battle of Dunbar which is the end of the First War of Scottish Independence. Basically it really was a bloodless battle as the Scots were disorganized and the Brits had horses. It was also the point where the Stone of Scone was stolen and placed in Westminster, officially making every British monarch the ruler of both Scotland and England.

_1337 -_ The year the Hundred Years War began.


End file.
